


Wash Over Me

by LeftToTheDark



Category: Aquaman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010), Red Hood: Lost Days
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Arthur Curry (DCU), Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arthur is Aquaman, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason is in his 20s, M/M, Omega Jason Todd, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Muteness, alternative universe, intersex omega
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeftToTheDark/pseuds/LeftToTheDark
Summary: Jason’s return to Gotham ended with his neck sliced open.But it’s a shipwreck that transforms his life into something new.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Arthur Curry
Comments: 10
Kudos: 80
Collections: Jason Todd Rare Pair Challenge





	Wash Over Me

The wound is still too sore to touch, and each movement causes it to throb like a war drum playing in his throat. Jason has even taken it upon himself to avoid drinking – whether it be water or much-needed alcohol – out of desire. Only with absolute necessity would he allow small sips of refreshing liquid to soothe his parched oesophagus. Large gulps will just cause discomforting sensations to heighten. In particular, the feeling of several paper-cuts dancing around his pale neck. It leaves him curling his fingers around his pillow at night or tilting his head forward as not to stretch the broken skin. Jason assures himself that the painkillers are doing their job and there is no need for anymore. After all, he does not want the title ‘drug addict’ added to the list of negative synonyms associated with his name.

Clean bandages cling to the injury similar to the way excessively advertised collars do. The ones created by the alpha-dominated fashion companies to appeal to ‘dainty’ omegas, bonded or un-bonded. These adverts are usually comprised of numerous buzzwords like ‘desirability’ and ‘alpha-magnet’. It was ninety years ago that advertisers stopped using the words ‘scientifically proven’ after a landmark lawsuit by an omega. The argument being that the thousands spent on these collars did not help the woman find a suitable alpha. Surprisingly, she won and earned her money back, including emotional compensation. People – in present times – would have slandered her for the stupidity she exhibited, wondering how she could believe such obvious lies. However, the past was a difficult place for omegas, telling them that bonding with an alpha was the only way to express their minuscule rights. Thankfully, things have changed, but many individuals still cling to old beliefs.

Jason takes a careful sip of mango juice before turning his attention to the Gotham Gazette website.

_The Rising Drug Lord Defeated and Joker Back Behind Bars._

_The mysterious masked man hiding behind the alias ‘Red Hood’ has been reported to be defeated by Gotham’s Dark Knight. After weeks of drug syndicates bending to Hood’s rule, it seemed that his quick grasp for power was a prelude to his even quicker defeat. The Commissioner has declined to comment on the arrest of Red Hood, but rumours are circulating of his failure to capture the new crime lord. However, he is expected to release a full statement later this week. Answers surrounding the Joker’s involvement will most likely be omitted, as our anonymous contact states, “[Joker] refuses to give details on what happened. He just keeps laughing. A lot more than usual. He says we don’t deserve to hear this joke.”_

The article continues to give more opinions on the matter, either attacking the inadequacy of the GCPD or expressing outlandish theories on what could have happened. The theory implying that Jason was the Joker’s son makes the liquid in his stomach want to rise and aggravate his throat. After a few deep breaths, he loosens his grip on his smartphone – an untraceable one, he made sure – and tries to enjoy the gentle rock of waves dissipating the moment it encounters the _borrowed_ yacht. Finding a way out of Gotham had not been easy. Bruce would have kept an eye on all the car routes and unverified plane departures. His single option had been to escape by boat. Knowing the man, Bruce would have assumed Jason would avoid crossing the water due to an event of drowning during his time as Robin. Talia had ripped that fear from him, making sure no traces existed in the hidden corners of his mind.

He wonders what expression the woman will wear once she hears of his failure to complete his plan. Probably indifference. Jason was a tool in her obsessive goal of making Bruce ‘who he denies himself to be’. Was fucking Jason also apart of that? He would not be shocked if it were. Sex can play a massive part in manipulation, and at that time, Jason was at his lowest. He recalls the way his body shuddered with rage, fuelled further with the side-effects of the Lazarus Pit. He had been told the news of his supposed death and the lack of consequences for Joker. The green-haired bastard had been sent back to Arkham, biding his time before his next breakout. Jason had hoped for this to be false. That after his death, Bruce would have realised Joker could never be redeemed, be _caged_. He was – _is_ – a monster. But that did not happen. Jason had died while his murderer lived.

Life is truly cruel.

But what better ending for a street rat like him. Gotham gives no comfort to her inhabitants, particularly those raised below the designer shoes of the elite. He had forgotten this when Bruce took him in, promising him a better life. Believing he did not have to cower in fear of those finding out his secondary gender because he had found a place to be accepted. Maybe even loved. The rejection by Dick Grayson should have been the first sign of future events. The older teen avoided Jason and the manor, the rocky relationship between him and Bruce on the verge of imploding. Jason did his best to form bonds but was met with dismissal and other negative responses. It stung to see the hero he looked up to refusing to catch his gaze, but Jason finally understood his reaction, when he had been replaced months after his death. There is only one question that now rests on the forefront of Jason’s mind.

Does he want to return?

He has botched what he set out to do and is now drifting aimlessly with no set destination. Even the cloudless sky and cool breeze do nothing to lift his mood. _Because it’s wrong_ , he thinks. It should be raining, washing away the blood of the destitute stabbed for fun. The clouds have to thunder and crackle with electronic pulses, while those sleeping under broken roofs pray for a better day. There ought to be a sense of anguish in the air because hoping is sacrilegious for those who revere Gotham. Police sirens must dominate the cries of children, signalling their voices will be used against them. 

The sun, the sky and the sounds are wrong here.

This is how he knows he is far from the place he calls home.

* * *

He spoke too soon.

The weather is changing. The first indication being how the winds grow heavier to the point he can taste the salt it carries on his tongue. The unusual concoction of sweetness from his unfinished drink and bitterness that rests in his mouth causes him to grimace. He makes a mental note to never add salt to mangoes – not that he would – as both flavours juxtapose each other in ways he cannot describe. Attempting to lower the potency by scraping his tongue against teeth, Jason registers a shift in the breeze and the increased force each time it blows into him. As if reacting on instinct, he begins to examine his surroundings, or to be specific, he turns his eyes to the distant horizon. It is here the view of the sun drifting below the sealine greets him, transforming the sky into what could be considered one of William Turner’s paintings. However, polychromatic hues of reds, oranges and blues are tainted with spots of grey. It is as if the cup used to clean watercolour brushes from vivid shades had splattered its dirty water on the art piece. 

But the signs are clear. A storm is coming, and it is only a matter of time before Jason is submerged in complete darkness. With new information gained, he rises from his seat on the deck and makes his way towards the cabin. His earliest priority is to activate all running lights. The rapid speed of the winds may result in the thick, dark clouds concealing the remaining sunshine in less than an hour. He will not take the risk of activating these lights later. The cabin interior, he thinks while stepping inside, does not shy from the luxury it displays; the large, spacious lounge is filled with high-class furniture, ageing liquor from foreign lands line glass cabinets, and the enormous flat-screen TV attached to the wall reflects Jason’s silhouette in an obnoxious manner. Everything about the design screamed ‘douchebaggery’ as the baroque-inspired layout and modern technological equipment scattered around clashed. The whole thing is quite harsh on the eyes and _completely shit,_ in Jason’s most humble opinion. 

But as people – mostly him – say, the richer you are, the shitter your taste becomes. Others might go down the sexist route and explain how alphas need an omega to make the perfect home. Such bullshit. In his twenty-two years of living, Jason has met other omegas with distasteful and messy flats. And in terms of alphas, some are too fucking lazy to care for anything other than their knot. Thankfully, Alfred had been the one to shape the manor’s interior during Jason’s time there. The lovable beta probably still does. All events at the manor had also been curated under his watchful gaze. There had never been a decoration out of place or contrasting colours which force individuals to turn away in disdain. Perfect, it had always been perfect.

Jason reaches the bridge in a matter of minutes and is relieved to find that the cabin's repugnant design does not extend into this room. With the control panel in sight, he flips the switches which represent the lights. He spots the flicker of a red glow on the port side of the ship and green on the other, the tall windows before him giving full vision of all ahead. He then changes his attention to the VHF radio. He rotates a small knob on the radio until the small screen attached displays the number 68 – an open frequency station. A second later, rough static surges from the speakers and Jason quickly adjusts the squelch to reduce as much white noise as possible. Picking the microphone up and holding it at a ninety-degree angle, he pushes the button to transmit his voice.

“Radio check,” he says, the growing ache of his throat making it hard to speak. A batarang to the neck is something he _never_ wishes to repeat. “Radio check. Radio check. Lady Jane Eyre.”

The name of the boat is fake, but the other person does not need to know that. Taking his finger off the transmission button, he waits a while but a gruff man soon answers his call.

“ _Radio sounds good, Lady Jane Eyre._ ”

Jason breathes a sigh of relief, shoulders releasing a fraction of tension. He can’t imagine what would happen if the radio was not working. Well, he knows it to be a disaster for sure. He clicks the automatic channel 16 button with haste and a clear feminine voice announces itself. 

“ _Here is the latest weather product_ ,” she states in a monotonous tone. “ _S_ _torm warning coming in effect from 8 PM Tuesday to 7 AM Thursday. National Weather Service has issued a warning for strong gale force winds and precipitation, which is in effect from 8 PM Tuesday to 7 AM Thursday. Locations: east coast of New Jersey. Hazard types: freezing rain, high tide, rough waters, and strong winds. Hazardous travel conditions to be expected and should be avoided completely. All vessels are advised to turn back to land or find safety…_ ”

The woman continues to regurgitate information while Jason checks the time. _19:21_ lights up his phone. Without wasting another moment, he rushes to the storage room he gave no attention to when first arriving on the yacht. He flings the door open and is welcomed to several sets of diving equipment; dry suits, gloves, goggles, and oxygen tanks. There are a few other things like first-aid kits and torches. But there are no lifejackets. A cabinet in which the word ‘lifejackets’ is stickered down the side is empty.

_Fuck._

If Jason ever meets the owner of this boat, he will make sure to shoot them for their idiocy in regard to safety measures and the terrible sense of decor. He scrutinises the room once again, making sure to leave nothing unchecked. The scuba equipment rests in the same position as it did in the few seconds before. _Hold on_ , he thinks. _Diving?_ An idea flows into his head. The oxygen tanks. He can use the oxygen tanks. Jason inspects the gauge level of each tank until he finds one with the oxygen amount needed to dive for a little more than three hours. With no time to change into a dry suit, Jason straps a tank to himself then grabs a diving mask and torch. He hopes he will not need to use them.

He returns to the bridge. The clouds beyond the windows permit no light to penetrate its thick shroud, and abrupt rain has reached the degree in which it rams against the glass. He is now in the dark, but it does not bother him. He takes a hold of the wheel and slows down the speed of the yacht. While doing so, the roar of thunder triggers the feeling of electric charge to tickle the ends of hair before shooting down to his toes. In this instance, Jason understands what he must do to ensure his survival. He turns on the boat’s GPS signal and tunes back into channel 16. 

“Mayday. Mayday. Mayday,” he croaks, aware of the fading painkiller effects. The agony caused by the wound will soon resume. “This is Lady Jane Eyre. Lady Jane Eyre. Lady Jane Eyre. I have turned on my GPS signal and seem to be stranded in the middle of the storm. I am the only person on board. Calling for–”

Something slams into the side of the yacht, resulting in it tilting at a very high angle. If it were not for Jason’s quick reflexes, he would have slid down to the right and collided with the wall. But he grips the wheel with such force he thinks it might bend in his hand. He can hear a faint reply from the radio, but the constant crashes of objects in the cabin and cracks of lightning overpower it. Jason lets go of the microphone and places the diving mask on, the tube which connects the mask to the tank already in place.

This is when he finally sees it. The distant green glow illuminating a wave closing in on him at a pace he cannot calculate. When he tips his head up despite the incredible pain it produces, it is not the flashes of lightning on the horizon he sees but a wave that could almost reach the heavens itself. The boat rises as the wave makes contact. Higher and higher he goes like a man using a surfboard to ride the current.

Then his whole world flips and comes hurtling down.

Many instances pass as the shock of cold water settles down and his bodily sensations return. He opens his eyes to see nothing, the torch he had possessed gone. Jason does not know how long he spent floating in the depths of the sea, nor does he tally the seconds which go by. _Maybe this death will be_ _peaceful_ , he thinks. This watery grave in which none can disturb. His eyelids droop down as if dragged by the heavy chains of exhaustion. Yes, here the years of accumulated anger and intense loneliness will perish alongside him.

Even though the dream of a soothing voice entering his ears and a warm touch to his hand, he wills himself to doze off into what he hopes will be his eternal rest. 

* * *

Is death meant to be warm?

In Jason’s experience, the answer would be a resounding ‘no’. Not that he can remember his time as a dead man. There was only the confusion his zombified mind processed after waking up in what seemed to be a box. Contrary to popular belief, Jason is grateful for the lack of sanity he exhibited when returning from the dead. There was no terror puncturing every pore of his being, or the adrenaline-induced panic causing him to freeze under such intensity. All he knew was that he must escape this box. The darkness that constricted him from moving. With what was possible with his sluggish motor movements, he began to use his fingers to scratch at the curved roof and continued to scratch until the tips of his nails sawed itself down to skin. Then skin allowed warm liquid to slither down his hands. That night his blood was the only thing that gave him comfort against the freezing air as he broke surface, soil attempting to enter every facet whether mouth, nose, or ears.

This, however, is different. There is a steady level of heat that surrounds his body and no wall as he twitches his fingers to feel for one. The constant beeping to his side adds another clue to where he might be. Although, the strong scent of sea salts that permeates the air fills him with uncertainty. Is he on a ship? That can’t be it. He cannot feel the bumps of any waves – severe or soft – which should jolt him around. That’s if the storm is still ongoing. One thing is for sure, he is not dead. Jason strains his ears for any people around him, but there is nothing. No footsteps or small chatter. Only the steady _beep_ , _beep_ , _beep_ which bounces from corner to corner. In quite a large room, he realises. He tries to take a deep breath, but a sharp jolt of pain enters his body. Jason hisses in response. The ache, which he can no longer pinpoint, ebbs away in what he considers to be hours. Well, maybe an exaggeration but he’s not exactly counting anything in this state.

Switching to shallow breaths, Jason tries to lift his heavy eyelids in spite of the way his body protests. He is hit with a needle of light that pierces both irises as punishment. He forces himself to blink until the feeling numbs down. His blurred sight adjusts into focus until a coral blue roof is the first thing that engulfs his vision. _A hospital?_ This can be the only possibility, which is reinforced when he sets his eyes on a heart machine to his left. Judging by what is displayed on the screen, his heart rate seems to be going at a healthy pace with no anomalies. _Thank fuck for small mercies,_ he thinks. The time spent in a flooded bridge as the yacht sunk to the seafloor could have fucked him in many aspects, but his heart is not one of them. He cannot say the same for the rest of him though. His effort to lift his upper body – or even head – falls short, as severe fatigue shackles his limbs to the bed he is resting on.

He will not be able to move any time soon. Hopefully, his rescuers are of the kind sort and won’t ask too many questions.

A door creaks open and heeled shoes make their way over to Jason. It takes eight steps for the person to appear in his line of sight. Through this, he develops an understanding of how spacious the room is. Should a random stranger have this large room? He can’t even imagine the amount the hospital bill will total up to. But these thoughts are wiped away when a dash of pink appears. Pink _hair_. A dark-skinned woman stands on the side of his bed, close to the heart monitor as she checked for any irregularities. It is her clothes that throw Jason into the deep end. She is wearing what could be viewed as a dry suit, like the one in the storage room on the yacht, but the colour and design are different with very noticeable features. The pink-haired lady is wearing a moss green suit with splashes of light green. What more, something akin to a shirt collar is attached to the suit but the flaps are lifted up as if to make a barrier around the back of her neck. He doesn’t even know what to say about the pink gemstone attached to the small ‘V’ lined dip above her chest.

This… This is a doctor? Her clothes don’t really correlate. 

The woman finishes her examination and turns her head towards Jason. Honey brown eyes stare at him as a singular pink eyebrow is raised. So, the pink is natural? Meta-human, maybe? Or the woman dyed her eyebrows to match her hair. Who knows at this point? He could actually be the depths of hell. Jason opens his mouth to ask his questions, but the woman’s hand covers it with incredible speed.

Um, should he react?

“You shouldn’t speak,” the doctor says, amusement filtering through her tone at whatever expression Jason holds. “The laceration on your neck has been showing signs of infection and has spread to the speech muscles in your throat. Any word spoken will probably result in bouts of pain.”

Jason can’t really nod his head, so he replies by blinking a few times at a fast pace. This causes the woman’s lips to quirk upwards in a slight smile.

“Judging by the depth of the wound and the extent of the infection, it will take approximately four to five months to completely heal and maybe even less to regain control of your voice.” The woman’s gaze drags itself across his body as she speaks. She adds, “As for the rest of you, scans show fractures on your femur in your left leg and two ribs in your chest. One rib seemed dangerously close to puncturing a lung but fortunately it did not come to that. Although, these would take a different amount of time to heal.”

Jason repeats his rapid blinking to signal his understanding. So, he is going to be stuck here for some time, wherever _here_ may be. The woman dressed in odd clothing does not seem to be much of a threat, but that doesn’t mean suspicion has completely diminished. He can say the same for himself. The doctor has been examining every slight reaction Jason portrays. Is she waiting for him to slip up? But why would she? His identity as Jason Todd is still thought to be deceased. There is no way Bruce would have made an announcement of his return. Not if he wished to avoid news vehicles parking outside the manor gates or Wayne Tech tower. Unless she knows about the stolen yacht instead. Authorities should then be alongside her or waiting outside the door but there is none of that.

“His Majesty,” the woman says, fiddling with other medical equipment, “will be delighted to know you have awakened. He was the one to hear your distress call and find you within the wreckage of your ship. Quite smart of you to have an oxygen tank on hand. Without it, you would be dead.”

 _His Majesty?_ Jason thought doctors were meant to answer questions, not add to the extensive list of uncertainties. But with the information he has, he starts to lay them out like invisible playing cards. A storm at sea results in being saved by a mysterious royal and is now in a strange salty place with a doctor in a dry suit… Jason has never been more thankful for the lack of Talia’s presence. Or Bruce’s. Did the anaesthetic given by the doctor slow down all thought processes? Jason will go with that to save himself the embarrassment of not realising the obvious.

“His Majesty could have returned you to the surface,” she continues, directing Jason’s attention back to her. Her face is no longer hiding her inquisitiveness. “But he chose not to. An unusual thing. Even for a man like him. Though the ruckus your presence is causing is entertaining, I cannot help but wonder… Anyway, it is my first time helping a full-blooded surface dweller and I never thought those words would escape my mouth. I’m wondering if you realised this, but I’ll say it to confirm any doubts. Welcome–”

_Holy–_

“–to Atlantis. I am Dr. Thnita.”

 _–shit_.

* * *

Atlantis.

He is in Atlantis.

Repeating the word does not seem to help it sink in. The doctor had disappeared after her announcement, but not before adjusting his bed to improve his view of the room. He was correct in assuming its size. It reminds Jason of the countless bedrooms in the manor; all locked away and left unaffected by human contact. When Bruce had first taken him in, Jason was given the opportunity to choose what would become his ‘sleeping quarters’. After spending the day searching, he decided on the attic in the left-wing because the space did not overwhelm him. The other rooms in the manor made Jason feel as if he were a miniature toy in a dollhouse, the ones he would see at the expensive shops in Gotham Central high street. However, Jason was the fractured figure tucked away in a neglected room; his plastic arm either broken or head snapped off. He didn’t want to be placed beside luxurious decorations in worry the years of living in Crime Alley would stain them. That’s why the attic was ideal. It was a decent size – not too large or small – and kept him away from things he shouldn’t touch.

Alfred had given an unreadable look in response to his chosen room, but the man and his comforting scent of burning wood would arrive at his door with cookies and warm milk in hand. Every night without fail. But this hospital room appears to put the manor to shame. The gold archlike door shows itself to be a _unique_ element when compared to the slick emerald floors. The gold wardrobe is a little too much though. He questions whether each hospital ward has ultra-lush furniture, too. If so, he kinda understands the fixation alleged treasure hunters have, or the controversial Dr. Stephan Shin and his multiple TV appearances about Atlantis. At least his bed is the same as those typically found in ordinary clinics – silver coated metal, hidden wires, etc – but he’s not going to deny that this mattress is five steps up in quality.

The lack of a window is another noticeable thing. Could he have been purposefully placed here? To be isolated from the rest of Atlantis, he means. It is a possibility when remembering the doctor’s earlier words. His presence is causing a ruckus, she had said. Not the first time if he is being honest, but those other instances had been deliberate. His endeavour to rile up reactions. Take his example of appearing before Bruce as if to say, ‘Surprise, fucker. I’m not dead.’ It was very petty but fun. Recommended to all. Ten out of ten, would do it again. This case is a complete accident. The yacht – real name ‘Sin or Swim’ from the words stamped to its side – had been selected by chance, including his route of escape. And the fuck was he meant to know a storm would arrive?

 _By checking the weather_ , a mocking voice whispers in his mind.

Jason sighs in frustration. Everything comes down to one person – his assumed saviour, Aquaman. The potential reasons for why this man brought him here is close to none. Jason does not recollect ever meeting the man. The closest thing was stumbling across Aqualad, Dick, and the rest of the Titans hanging out in Gotham. It was an awkward meeting. His presence was evidently unwelcomed by Dick’s strained expression. Jason left with the same swiftness as he entered. He never went back there again. It was his favourite fast-food joint, too. If he met the black-haired water bender now, will he be recognised? Jason does not think so. His current body differs from the typical petite figure omegas are said to have. Some assume he’s an alpha because of his broad shoulders and hulking stature. If he releases that iron-tight grip on his pheromones, it will prove them otherwise. 

He does not. The annoyances it causes outweigh any advantages.

If only he had his damned voice. It would be easier to ask the questions which sit heavy on his tongue. Wait, how is he meant to communicate until he can start moving his limbs? Morse code through blinking? Do they even know morse code? As ignorant as that question may be, Jason has no information on Atlanteans. Such as whether they eat meat or have a plant-based diet. Like does eating fish mean killing what children consider a pet? Okay, now he cannot stop imagining children raising their pet fishes just to be eaten at the dinner table. They could be very vegan, for all he knows. Jason may well have to spend these months eating green foods. Not that he has anything against that, but he will be lying to their faces if he says he does not miss eating a hamburger. He takes another shallow breath. There are so many things to ask. The technology around the room gives him hope. Could they give him a device to type out his thoughts? His first spoken words will be a thank you for that.

Bruce… He ponders on what the aftermath of his escape in Gotham caused. Dick will know of his return. So will Alfred. His replacement, too. How will they react to what Bruce did, or what Jason was about to do with the gun in his hand? Will they understand or condemn his actions? Use the excuse that he’s always been prone to violence, so he deserved to have his throat sliced open. A fitting punishment for the person he has become…

A sudden thought flashes through him.

He… He’s underwater, right?

How is he breathing?

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I hope you guys enjoyed this. It was so much fun to write. I surprisingly learnt a lot about what to do on a boat in a storm when researching, not like I will ever be on one haha.
> 
> As you can tell by the tags, the pairing will be Jason/Arthur. But it will be more of a slow burn. The rating will go up in the future, so be warned of that. 
> 
> Jason is also aged up. He's around 22. 
> 
> Feel free to comment your thoughts. Would love to hear them.
> 
> (Arthur will be in the next chapter, but it will not be love at first sight haha)


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